


intimate lightning

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Closet Sex, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Fingerfucking, Future Fic, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9371264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: Written for the Johnson & Coulson fanworks exchange: Prompt = "Mace brings Coulson and Daisy along to an Inhuman Summit and they behave a bit unprofessionally in the cloakroom iykwim"





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hamsterfactor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamsterfactor/gifts).



“What did he mean? _Be professional_?”

Coulson - Phil, she has to remember to call him Phil in her head, but it’s hard, it’s been a few years of _Coulson_ , and a lot of it - has an amused and resigned expression on his face, but he shrugs at Daisy, while he checks his tie for the millionth time.

She is a bit offended, to be honest.

“I’m a bit offended, to be honest,” she says, as she looks at the numbers over the racks in this seemingly endless (and unattended) cloakroom.

“That was uncalled for,” Coulson agrees.

Daisy pulls at the strap of her dress, putting it in place, mirroring his worry about appearances. This is ridiculous, she thinks for the millionth time since this morning too, since Mace told them about the pre-meeting reception. She should be here talking in behalf of the Inhumans, not having cocktails with the head of the CIA (at least she thinks he’s attending). This is just a waste of time, and money. A lot of money.

“I hate this dress,” she mutters.

Coul- Phil gives her a sympathetic look. 

She had showed up to their morning meeting in jeans and with every intention to go to the summit like that and the Director almost had a freaking heart attack on the spot. When Daisy confessed she didn’t own any party dresses he fussed and sent his assistant to buy one for her. Meanwhile he lectured her and Coulson on how important it was that they’d be _very professional_ and _absolutely professional_ (both things) tonight.

“Haven’t we behaved all this time?” she asks, rhetorically.

“We have,” Coulson agrees, scrunching his face because he can’t find the assigned numbers to leave their coats. It’s probably a security thing but damnit, why such a strict coak-dropping procedures.

“And I’m the first to admit, sometimes it has not been easy,” she says, making Coulson turn and smile at her.

They have been seeing each other like that for two months and they have been the picture of discretion. So much that they even have rules for themselves. they don’t even touch if they are alone in one of the common areas of the base - common areas are off-limits. As are Quinjets and the Z-1, unless it’s one of their bunks. They have been _model_ agents, when it comes to their budding partnership. And while pretty much everyone knows about them the relationship is not strictly _authorized_ , just tolerated.

It’s not exactly the first time Daisy had to do this; she remembers she had to pretend she and Miles weren’t together at first, because she was still making a name for herself among the Rising Tide, and she knew how it would look if people knew she was boning a much more famous and respected hacker within days of meeting him. To this day she thinks not many people in the world knew about them.

And well, this is actually the second time she dates someone who works with her inside SHIELD, so there’s that. 

“We even behaved that morning last week,” she comments, remembering a particular occasion where their self-imposed rules had tried her patience.

“What morning?” Coulson asks, all innocently.

“Come on,” she rolls her eyes, because that had been all his fault. “You know which morning.”

“No. What-?”

“That morning the Director called for an emergency meeting before breakfast and I came straight from the gym and I was sweating and you looked at me… well, _you know_ how you looked at me.”

She watches the moment Coulson remembers the morning in question and she swears she can see how his nose and cheeks get a little pink. It’s cute. And also weird, because it’s Coulson - but she is getting used to that part (though there are things she thinks she won’t ever get used to).

“Ah, well yeah, sorry about that,” he mutters. “But nothing happened.”

She smiles.

For some reason this time it’s harder for her, than when she had to hide her relationships before. For some reason she feels like every moment she and Coulson, she and Phil, are not touching, is a waste. Maybe it’s because it’s new - but she has known _new_ before, and it wasn’t like this. Maybe it’s that she’s happy these days; relationships and happiness don’t go hand in hand for her. Maybe it’s because she loved Coulson for a long time before she _loved_ him.

Anyway, she should probably concentrate on getting to this fancypants reception thingie instead of thinking how much she’d rather be doing _other things_. She’s not going to give Mace the satisfaction of being right about them.

“Why do they need such a big cloakroom? And where the hell is Area B?”

Seriously this thing seems like the kind of place you go through to get to Narnia - which betrays the kind of high-brow literary references Daisy is capable of, she thinks, making fun of the fact that she didn’t even get to read the books (she’s more of a Harry Potter girl), she just watched the James McAvoy movie.

“Maybe it’s because it’s an official reception,” Coulson says.

“That’s why they need the hugeass cloakroom?”

“No, I mean. The Director. He warned us because this is… kind of official.”

“Which I don’t understand…”

He gestures with his right hand.

“Like a reception,” he tries to explain. “Before the summit starts.”

“And this building. What’s up with it? It’s huge. It looks like the United Nations.”

Coulson - Phil, damnit - looks kind of guilty for a moment.

“Is this some kind of secret UN headquarters?” Daisy asks, tilting her head.

He gestures again, now wiggling his fingers more expressively. “But only _sort of_.”

Daisy widens her eyes. She gets it now. She’s in the center of it now. Funny, this is what she dreamed of when she was doing paranoid podcasts in her van (only they weren’t paranoid enough) all those years ago. She dreamed of breaking the story of a secret like this - shady organizations meeting to decide the future of the world in posh receptions like this. But now she has to be part of the people keeping that secret. Hell, she is that secret - except she’s not a secret anymore, is she. She’s Daisy Johnson and she is also Quake and she is here as spokesperson for her people.

“Did you come to many of these? Back in the old SHIELD days? What was it, the 60s?”

She wins a groan out of that. But he answers her question nonetheless.

“I’ve done a couple,” he admits.

Daisy imagines him accompanying a newly appointed Director Fury to these events.

“You spent a lot of time in cloakrooms?” she asks, suggestively.

“I think I’m seeing Area B,” he says, decided not to let himself be drawn by her. “This way.”

He takes her hand for a moment. That turns their predicament from something she is teasing him about to a real problem. She’s normally pretty chill - that is her, chill Daisy Johnson - about Coulson casually touching her in public (they’re not in public right now, she reminds herself), it’s always friendly, it’s not a problem. It’s definitely A Problem right now. He lets her go when they arrive at their designated coat area. But the damage is done; he touched her hand. 

She feels it, this is the thing that’s new for her. It’s like feeling her own powers running through her veins. A shiver down her spine. Some sort of intimate lightning. 

She is sure she is looking at Coulson - at Phil - in the same way he looked at her that morning she had to go to their meeting straight from the gym.

Coulson is turning her into some sort of sex maniac.

Great.

“What?” Coulson asks, confused at her heated glance.

“Come here,” she says, reaching out her hand, dropping their coats over a random rack with the other.

To Coulson’s credit (or eternal shame) he offers no resistance. She pulls him with her into what she’s pretty sure is not Area B anymore, passing through fancy coats (is that fur?) until her back touches a wall. She hooks her fingers over his tie - but careful not to mess with it, careful to at least keep appearances - and soon he is chasing her mouth like this was the plan all along. Oh, God, was this the plan all along? Did she come here thinking about fucking Coulson in a closet because she was pissed off at Mace’s lack of faith in them? Well, this will show him. He kisses her as passionately as she kisses him, but when they pull apart he still looks like he’s overthinking it.

“I don’t think the Director-”

“Director? He’s just Mace.” She slides her fingers up and down his tie. “Are you going to be this _obedient_ if I become Director one day?”

“If? You mean _when_ ,” he says, and smirks at Daisy, because he apparently has caught up on what that does to her. Damnit. Damnit, Phil. She can’t hide from him. Even when she is literally hiding in a glorified closet. “I’ll be very obedient then.”

“Yeah?”

He nods and dips his head to press one kiss against her neck.

 

She guides his hand to her hip.

“And here I was complaining about having to wear a dress tonight…”

“Yes, that was quite foolish,” he says, his words all soft, his hand dropping to her thigh, bunching her dress.

He starts light and slow enough, discreetly slipping his right hand under her dress, circling her clit over the fabric of her panties, but barely pressing at all. Daisy is more focused on what his mouth is doing right now, distracting her with little kisses on her right cheek, and then a hint of teeth when he reaches her ear. It’s exciting and soothing at the same time, and she almost doesn’t notice how his fingers have snaked down, pushing her underwear aside. His kisses have got her already wet enough that he presses one, two fingers inside her and the only sound in the cloakroom is her breathing, hitched for half a second.

“Go on,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to Coulson’s forehead. “I can be quiet.”

She has often worried her lovers could mistake her silence for lack of passion, and she worries about that with Coulson too, but he seems to have accepted everything about her so far, and that gives her confidence. It must, because here she is, having sex in a semi-public place, something she never thought she’d do. Maybe Phil Coulson is a bad influence. 

He keeps kissing her, timing his kisses to the rhythm of his hands. His hands are amazing, his fingers… they’re supposed to be attending some boring reception before a boring conference where nothing gets done, right? She snickers softly. 

“Fuck,” she mutters.

She can feel Coulson’s grin pressed against her cheek.

“Probably not the kind of language you want to use it in the summit,” he teases her. “Just saying.”

He likes to talk, he’s a talker. She is becoming familiar with that. She’s becoming familiar with this too - him being inside her, her body wrapped around him. It feels natural, like she is tempted to forget it had a beginning, forget who kissed whom first (liar, she says to herself, she kissed him first, he would never have, she kissed him first and turned an after-mission drink into a private date). She lets out a tiny moan, of contentment as much as of arousal. This is nice. The “improper” side of it, the semi-public, appeals to her rebel spirit in a way (she’s never been rebellious when it comes to sex, she’s a good Catholic girl, but she’s not too old to learn, right?), but she is with Coulson, so it’s safe. She has a safety net here. If they get caught… they both get caught.

“What if we get caught?” she says, twisting her fingers into his hair (not that he has much to work with, but she doesn’t want to be mean, and he looks sexy to her either way). Coulson just groans, and she is not sure if it’s because he’s aroused or because he’s annoyed that Daisy has reminded him of a world outside this Narnia-portal world of fur coats and hungry mouth, hungry hands.

“That seems too far in the future…” he tells her, brushing his lips right above the cut of his dress. Now she dresses she could just slip out of it.

His left hand traces the outline of the dress, very careful not to wrinkle the fabric. She wishes they were truly alone and he didn’t have to be so careful. She closes her eyes, throwing her head back. She can smell the expensive perfumes on the strangers’ coats around them, and the faint smell of sex now. She takes a deep breath.

Then it’s gone, Coulson’s touch is gone, his hand is gone, and he is pulling away from her. Daisy opens her eyes.

“Hey, hey,” she protests. Loudly. Every second he’s not touching her a waste. “Don’t stop.”

Coulson moves his mouth over her chest. He looks up. “Trust me,” he says. The way he says it could make her come, Daisy thinks and nods dumbly, without needing to know what she is nodding at.

But Coulson slides down the length of her body, hands at her side to keep his balance, and when his knees hit the floor (a bit harder than planned, she can tell by a moment of wincing disturbing his cocky smile) she gets the idea.

Daisy is pretty sure this is grounds for demotion; one thing is getting fingerfucked in the cloakroom of some super secret shadow version of the United Nations, but oral? That seems like crossing a line. But when Coulson wraps his prosthetic hand around the bend of her knee like this, so gently and carefully, and coaxes Daisy to lift her leg over his shoulder, she believes demotion and eternal lectures on professionality from “Jeff” would be worth it.

He thrusts his tongue against her, harder than his fingers had been, or so it seems to her. He’s relentless, pitiless, and _not careful_. Daisy smiles to herself. She can’t wait to turn the unfamiliar bits into familiarity. Then her heart aches for a moment: things tend to go bad for her when she starts making plans. She thought she didn’t make plans anymore. And now here she is. But then Coulson’s tongue curls inside her and she stops thinking about that or she stops thinking at all and her heart fills with light again, temporary as it might be, and it is good, _it’s so good_ and she almost wants to scream how good it feels.

For all her pride in her quietness Daisy bites her bottom lip a bit - just in case - just as she is about to come, clenching around Coulson’s tongue.

He keeps holding up her legs as she rides the aftershocks of the orgasm, in case her balance falters when she slumps against the wall.

A few seconds or several minutes pass and the next thing she knows she is looking into Coulson’s smug face, while he is still knelt in front of him.

“A little help?” he says, holding out his hand. Even for a fit SHIELD agent like Co-like Phil standing on his knees like that must have been uncomfortable. Daisy doesn’t feel like making a joke about his age right now, not after what he has done for her. Or to her.

She watches him, a bit through hazy vision, as he checks that his tie is fine and his suit shows no evidence of their mischievousness. He clears his throat, looking at her from the corner of his eye.

“I think at this point the _current_ Director is going to start wondering where we are… and if we are being unprofessional against his explicit instructions.”

“Mmmm… _explicit_...”

She looks at him as he cleans his mouth with the handkerchief that goes so well with his nice expensive suit - there’s something very obscene about using that. And yeah, it’s going to help her a lot, meeting all these head honchos thinking about how Coulson can probably still taste her in his mouth. See? Sex maniac.

“Daisy,” he says, trying to stop her line of thinking, but his eyes are dancing. His eyes dance a lot when he looks at her, it’s one of those things she doesn’t believe she’ll ever tire of.

“What about you?” she asks, gesturing towards him in a pretty _explicit_ way. She doesn’t even care about sounding needy, she just imagines how good it would feel (because she knows exactly how it would feel, because he’s becoming familiar to her) if Coulson would just push her against this same wall and fuck her as she is still pulsating from her orgasm. She knows how good and easy it would feel, like coming home. If house was warm and sexy and didn’t have much hair left.

His smile widens, he almost chuckles.

“We can take care of that later,” he says.

“ _Later_?”

He takes her hand. That shiver, that intimate lightning, again. Will it always be like this? (She hopes so)

“I told you,” he says, leaning and whispering in her ear. “I’ve been here before… I know every nook and dark corner…”

“The Director is definitely not going to like that,” she points out.

“It’s fine,” Phil tells her, pulling her gently and leading the way out of the cloakroom. “I’m scoring point with the next one.”

“Maniac,” she mutters, following him, her eyes dancing as well.

Later they are unable to remember where they left their coats.


End file.
